


That Day

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Series: ACD Fics [16]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, No Dialogue, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 00:58:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16964736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: Sometimes there is artillery in the thunder and Watson can't sleep.





	That Day

I woke with a start as thunder rolled through the night. Sitting up, I rubbed my eyes, my shoulder aching with memory. Holmes stirred by my side and I carefully crept from bed, not wanting to wake him with my ghosts. I threw on a robe and made my way out to the front room.

Lightning illuminated the room as I entered it, the rain beating a steady drumbeat on the windows. I didn’t bother with a candle, simply found my way to the decanter by memory and poured myself a drink.

Sitting in my customary chair, I regarded the low banked fire, heard the sound of gunfire in the rain, artillery in the thunder. It had been many years since I had nearly perished, but some nights I could still smell the gunpowder, still taste the pain and fear.

I shivered, though the night was warm, nursing the scotch and allowing myself to think of names I usually kept locked away. The faces were mostly blurred by time, and some I had never known, but still, I felt them close around me. My cheeks grew damp, but I ignored the tears. It wasn’t done, after all. I was a soldier. I had fought. I had returned home. I should be thankful.

I startled as I realized Holmes had joined me. He silently picked up his violin and started playing, something gentle that softened the noise of the rain. The thunder slowly moved off.

Shaking back the memories I looked up at Holmes, grounded myself in his presence. He met my gaze in the darkness. He could never know exactly what went on in my heart, but he knew enough to be silent and simply be.

As the night stilled and I finished my drink he set his violin down again and came to me. He knelt at my feet, pillowing his head on my thigh. I smiled softly, sadly and ran my fingers through his hair. If I was grateful for anything in my life it was this.

I sighed and set my glass aside, tugging him up into my lap. He curled up against my chest as if listening to my steady heartbeat. I kept my hand running through his hair, my other hand on his hip. I breathed in the scent of him, tobacco and home.

We stayed there for long moments, until the last of the thunder had faded and the rain quieted to a whisper. Only then did Holmes raise his head and kiss me gently, finding his feet and taking my hand. I allowed him to lead me back to the bedroom.

He helped me out of my robe, perhaps seeing the way I stiffly held my arm. We climbed into bed and he moved over me, straddling my waist and sipping kisses from my lips.

I sighed and cupped his hips, glad for the strength of him. When I thought I might falter, he was there to bolster me. We supported each other, thick or thin. With him I was two halves of a whole, not a lone wanderer in the night.

Holmes sat back, pushing up my nightshirt and taking me in hand. He stroked me slowly to fullness. This flat, this bed, was a refuge from all the ills of a world that could never understand.

I smiled at him, reaching up to cup his cheek. He leaned into my touch before turning his head to kiss my palm.

He reached over for the oil, slicking me and then himself. Another time I might have protested that he needed more preparation, but tonight I let him bear down on me, bracing his hands on my chest.

I groaned softly at the heat of him, every shift of his hips reminding me that I was alive. He settled and leaned down to kiss me again.

With one arm around his waist, I rolled us over, thrusting slowly, kissing deeply. Holmes had his hands in my hair, quiet moans falling from his lips. There was no hurry in our movements. It was intimacy, it was connection, it was presence. And it was love.

We moved together in the night. Outside the rain came again, but now I barely noticed. My world lay in the warm body underneath me, the elegant hands on my skin, the taste of his kiss.

I found my climax first, filling him and stilling, panting against his shoulder while he traced patterns across my broad back. Again he let me be, unhurried, patient, knowing that I would see to his needs when I was ready.

Finally, I carefully pulled out and moved down the bed, swallowing him all at once. He groaned and nearly came right there, gasping and arching up against me. I pinned his hips with my hands, holding him in place as I brought him over. He cried out my name as he came. I swallowed his essence, reveled in the taste.

Holmes shivered as I pulled away and wiped my mouth. I tugged down his nightshirt and went to the washbasin for a cloth, cleaning us both up. He reached for me and I got back into bed, pulling the blankets over us, gathering him in my arms. He kissed my wounded shoulder, as if he could heal it with a touch. And perhaps he could, or at the very least, he could keep the shadows at bay.

I kissed the top of his head, the soft sound of his breath drowning out the shouts of war, for now. And when the darkness threatened again, he would be there, lighting my path, seeing me safely home.

**Author's Note:**

> The title from [a Kipling poem](https://www.bartleby.com/364/231.html) about the Battle of Maiwand, where Watson was wounded.
> 
> Much thanks to smirkdoctor and theartstudentyouhate for reading along, and for beltainefaerie for the beta


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